


You Put my Head in Such a Flurry

by zerosys



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Diabetes, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 02:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zerosys/pseuds/zerosys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a <a href="http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=49710972#t49710972">kinkmeme prompt</a>: <i>Eames and Arthur have officially been a couple for a few months. Arthur is diabetic but for whatever reason he hasn’t told Eames.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	You Put my Head in Such a Flurry

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever fic, written on a whim for a kinkmeme prompt. Please note that all of my knowledge of diabetes is courtesy of Wikipedia, so I apologize for any glaring inaccuracies!

Arthur sighs and rubs his eyes as he realizes he’s once again managed to read an entire page without actually taking in any information. Leaning back in his chair, he glances distractedly around the vacated bookshop the team is using for the job. It’s midday, the sunlight that manages to peek in through the boarded-up windows intensifying the headache throbbing at the back of Arthur’s skull.

“Hey,” Arthur startles and turns around to glare at the hand Cobb has dropped to his shoulder. At Arthur’s reaction, Cobb’s face threatens to break into a concerned squint. “You alright? You’ve been kind of jumpy today.” 

Arthur shrugs out from underneath Cobb’s hand. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “I’ll be even better when I can actually get a full night’s sleep. The amount of preliminary research I’ve had to do for this job is fucking ridiculous.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about. No offense, but you look like shit,” Arthur shoots another glare at Cobb and wonders exactly how he isn’t supposed to be offended by that.

Avoiding Arthur’s eyes, Cobb appears to gear himself up for his next words, and Arthur can already feel his annoyance spiking. “Listen, I know you hate talking about it, but when was the last time you ate? I don’t want a repeat of that time in Toronto.”

“Cobb, I don’t need you treating me like some kind of invalid,” the other man frowns and starts to interject, but Arthur cuts him off. “I know my own fucking limits. And not that it’s any of your business, but I metered myself this morning and I was fine. So why don’t you just back off.”

Cobb lifts his hands in the universal chill-the-fuck-out gesture. “Okay, I just wanted to make sure. But seriously, you don’t look so great. Maybe you should head back to your hotel early, get a full eight hours of sleep. The job’s not going to fall apart if you take a night to recharge your batteries,” he says gently, his face doing that thing where it tries to look concerned and authoritative at the same time. It mostly just makes him look seasick.

Turning back to the tidy piles of documents on his desk, Arthur says, “I’m a big boy, Cobb. I can take care of myself.”

Cobb snorts and starts walking back towards his work area. “And I’m serious,” he half-yells over his shoulder. “I know what you can get like when you’re fixated on something. Don’t make me put Eames on babysitting duty!”

As if he had been waiting for his cue, Eames chooses that moment to bustle into the bookshop in a whirlwind of tweed and good cheer. “Honey, I’m home!” he shouts as he kicks the door closed.

Eames walks over to Arthur’s desk and plants a loud smacking kiss to his left cheek. Arthur can hear Cobb snickering over in his corner.

“Here’s the latest batch of surveillance photos of our ever-interesting Mr. Jacobs,” he says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “I can’t process how a man who does so much mob work can still be so mind numbingly dull.”

Arthur merely quirks his eyebrow noncommittally and reaches for the envelope of photos Eames is holding out, hoping that Eames won’t notice the slight tremor in his hands. It is, apparently, not Arthur’s day, as Eames’s gaze sharpens instantly.

“Are you okay? I wasn’t going to say anything, but you do look a bit peaky. You didn’t come back to the hotel last night. I was very lonely, you know,” Eames says, waggling his eyebrows.

It was true, Arthur hadn’t been keeping anything resembling normal hours for the last few weeks, often taking sporadic naps on the worn-out sofa in the back room of the bookshop rather than heading back to the hotel. Eames had been all too vocal in his disapproval of this behavior, but to be perfectly honest, Arthur felt like he still needed some measure of personal space. The two of them had only officially been living together for three months, and much of that time had been spent away on different jobs. Arthur hadn’t even told Eames about his _condition_ yet, taking pains to measure and inject only when he was absolutely certain Eames was distracted by something else. Arthur has no problem admitting that he loves Eames; he just isn’t ready for full-disclosure yet.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest to mask the shakiness. “When did you and Cobb turn into such mother hens? Seriously, I’m fine,” Arthur pauses and considers his slightly elevated heart rate, the faint queasiness of his stomach, the steadily worsening headache. “Okay. I _may_ be running on too much caffeine and too little sleep, lately. All the more reason to just get this job over with so I can take a much deserved vacation.”

Eames smirks. “You wouldn’t know what to do with yourself on a vacation, dear, and we both know it.”

“Oh, I dunno. I can think of a few things,” Arthur says, a lewd smile spreading slowly across his face. Eames’s eyes darken. 

“Well, in that case,” he says, his voice a low rumble, “I better get to work. Wouldn’t do to keep you waiting, after all.” With that, he winks at Arthur and saunters across the bookshop to his own desk, putting an extra sway in his hips for Arthur’s amusement.

\--

Several hours later and Arthur is beginning to think Cobb was right. The shakiness has gotten worse, spreading up from his hands to his arms, and down his spine. In the last hour alone, he’s knocked his phone, his _other_ phone, and a stack of papers off his desk. He can’t concentrate on anything for more than a few minutes at a time, and he has to blink frequently to keep his vision focused. The once manageable headache is now pounding behind his eyes and the queasiness has morphed into nausea. Arthur has to admit he’s only made it this long on the wings of denial and stubbornness.

Eames keeps shooting concerned glances in his direction, and it’s getting harder for Arthur to reply with reassuring smiles. As loathe as he is to admit it, he needs to sneak away to measure his blood sugar and scrounge up something to eat. He braces himself and stands up to do just that, but the room spins dangerously and his knees buckle. Grabbing the edge of his desk, he takes a deep breath and gropes for his satchel, which contains his kit. If he can just get to the bathroom, meter himself, and find some crackers or something, he’ll be fine.

So of course, he manages to take two steps away from his desk before there’s a loud _whoosh_ -ing in his ears and he collapses.

At first, he’s vaguely aware of Cobb cursing and Eames shouting. As the noise in his head recedes, he’s better able to understand what’s going on. Cobb is digging through Arthur’s satchel, presumably to dig out the glucose meter. Arthur wants to shout at him to _leave it in the bag, Eames will see_ , but then he figures there is no use hiding it now. Fainting in the middle of the room was kind of a giveaway.

Eames is kneeling next to Arthur, white as a sheet. He’s running his hand through Arthur’s hair and over his face, seemingly more to reassure himself than Arthur.

Cobb has finally located the meter. He kneels down at Arthur’s other side and picks up his hand, but Arthur tries to pull back. He doesn’t want Eames to see, but he can’t get his words to stop slurring enough to get his message across.

Correctly guessing at the source of his discomfort, Cobb focuses his stare on Eames. “You need to go to that convenience store on the corner of the street. Get him some apple or orange juice.”

Though it’s a cliché, Eames looks remarkably like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes are round and his pupils are dilated, he doesn’t twitch under Cobb’s heavy gaze. It’s clear that he doesn’t want to move, wants to stay at Arthur’s side until he is sure he’s not in imminent danger of death.

Arthur rolls his eyes and manages to get his tongue to cooperate. “Jus’ go. ‘ll be fine,” he says hoarsely.

Eames and Arthur share a long look. Reassured, though not happy, Eames climbs to his feet and smiles weakly at Arthur. “Be back in a tic,” he whispers, then jogs to the door.

Cobb sighs and presses the meter to Arthur’s middle finger. It beeps about five seconds later and Cobb’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “Congratulations, you’re at 48 mg/dL. Much longer, and you could have had a seizure, Mr. I’m-a-big-boy.” Arthur closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath through his nose. Cobb is never going to let him hear the end of this.

While they wait for Eames to get back with the juice, Cobb half-carries Arthur over to one of the old bookshop lounge chairs they’ve been using for trial runs on the PASIV. A few minutes pass before Eames barges back into the shop with a bottle of apple juice clutched in one hand, and a determined expression on his face, looking like a man tasked with the gravest of quests.

And so it comes to pass that Arthur, sweating and shivering all at once, is made to down half a bottle of apple juice under the silent, watchful gazes of his boss and his lover, in the middle of an abandoned bookshop in suburban Illinois, at 6:24 on a Tuesday evening.

Arthur hates that this is his life.

\--

As soon as Arthur is able to walk unsupported again, Cobb gives him the bum’s rush out the door, ordering him to get a good meal and a full night of sleep. He uses threats of grave bodily harm as an incentive, which Arthur loudly complains is counterintuitive. Eames is all too happy to grab Arthur’s things and take him by the elbow, forcibly leading him to the rental.

The ride back to the hotel is silent and largely uncomfortable for Arthur. Eames steers the car with his left hand and rests his right hand on Arthur’s knee, seemingly still in need of reassurance. Arthur lightly rests his hand on top of Eames’s. He thinks back on his little “episode”. He can’t believe he let Eames see him in such a state. He can feel a blush spreading across his face at the renewed humiliation, and is glad that the darkness of the car will prevent Eames from seeing that as well.

Once in the privacy of their hotel room, Arthur immediately starts stripping, intent on showering away the day’s sweat and shame. He is halted in his ministrations by Eames turning him around and enveloping him in a hug. Arthur resists at first, but allows himself to relax into it when it becomes clear that the other man is not letting go any time soon.

“You scared the piss out of me, darling,” Eames says softly while rubbing his hand up and down the bare skin of Arthur’s back. “Please don’t do that again.”

He burrows his face into the crook of Eames’s neck. “It wasn’t exactly intentional,” He grumbles.

Eames pulls back so he can look Arthur in the face. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you’re diabetic?”

Arthur breaks Eames’s embrace and walks over to the bed. He sits on the edge and rubs his face. “What was I supposed to say, Eames? ‘Oh, by the way, my body is incapable of keeping itself alive without constant monitoring and occasional injections. Don’t mind me if I happen to pass out while I’m doing this paperwork.’”

“Is that what this is about?” Eames asks incredulously. “You didn’t tell me because you were _embarrassed_? Did you really believe this would make me think less of you?” He walks to the bed and sits beside Arthur.

Arthur keeps his eyes focused on his hands, clasped in his lap. His silence is all the confirmation Eames needs.

“For fuck’s sake, Arthur,” he says, not unkindly, “Did you think less of me when I told you I’m allergic to shellfish? Or that time I got gut-shot and cried like a bloody baby? I distinctly remember there being a lot of snot and wailing, and for some reason, you still decided I was worthy enough to get in your pants. Believe me, short of admitting that you’re a diehard Jersey Shore fan, there’s little you can say that would make me lose my respect for you.”

At this, Arthur closes the space between them and leans in for a soft, chaste kiss.

When they separate, Arthur smiles mischievously and says, “You know, The Situation really has some remarkable—”

“Quiet, you,” Eames chuckles, and leans in for a deeper kiss.


End file.
